Witch and Wizard_ The Fire - James Patterson [32]
Chapter 32
Wisty
MOMENTS LATER, WE’RE sitting in Mrs. Highsmith’s new kitchen in her new apartment, since her last apartment basically had a tornado hit it — a tornado courtesy of The One Who Is The One.
Where exactly is her new place, you ask? I’m not quite sure, but from a glance out the window, I’d say if she’s trying to blend in with the New Order drones, she’s doing a good job.
How did we get here? I can’t exactly tell you that either. All I know is that Mrs. H. took off ahead of us, the world seemed to cave in on itself, the laws of physics reconfigured, I felt totally motion-sick, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting on a barstool and Mrs. H. was asking me to pass the witch hazel.
I feel like I’ve been playing with a light socket, and Whit’s fuse looks seriously blown, but when I glance up at Mrs. H., not a hair is out of place on her gray head, her suit remains perfectly pressed, and she’s still clicking around in those impossibly high heels.
Typical.
Mrs. H. is stirring a brew of the foulest-smelling business you can possibly imagine — like a marriage of sulfur and sewage that is going to produce some truly rank offspring. I back away from the stinky slop and join Whit in taking in the surroundings.
Her new apartment isn’t homey and welcoming like her last place was; I guess to live among the N.O. elite, you sacrifice space and personality. She’s got a red-clad doorman and a depressing but striking view of the Capitol building from her fifteenth-floor window.
She has kept some of the key things from her last place, though, and they don’t exactly add to the feeling of roominess. The walls are crowded with banned art, and sculptures lean in doorways, just like I remembered. There are pathways carved out through the litter, but so many musical instruments cover the floor anyway that someone’s going to break an ankle. The woman has some real hoarding issues.
And books. Stacks and stacks of books, everywhere. Jockeying for space on bureau tops, tipping over on coffee tables, piled in swaying mountains on the floor. Even if I didn’t get straight As, I always loved to read, and now that just about every single book has been banned, the pull is even stronger. I feel almost tender toward these tomes. The One has taken away our power to learn, grow, imagine, and escape through words.
Why didn’t we fight harder to keep it before it was torn away?
I pick up one book gingerly and brush off its dusty cover.
“The Cemetery Book,” Mrs. H. says over my shoulder. “Terrific choice. Plenty of great wisdom in that one.”
“Yeah, like what?” I laugh. “How to avoid dying? Because that’s some advice I could actually use.”
“Well, yes, and that you shouldn’t fear the dead,” she says, looking at my brother eerily. “The dead, like all of us, have … limitations.”
She says it in that weird voice she uses to convey Greater Knowledge. I roll my eyes. Mom would probably smack me, since she said Mrs. Highsmith was here to help us, and anyone who can duke it out with The One Who Is The One and hold her own (or at least not get killed on the spot) is one tough witch. Still, can I just say how sick I am of adults doing the wink-and-nod charade, like, Not until you’re older? I mean, we’re supposed to be the children of the Prophecy who change everything. Any advanced knowledge would be pretty freaking helpful right about now.
She turns to me. “And, Wisteria, you would do well to remember that wits, courage, and compassion are the keys to survival.” Her eyes sweep the room, sparkling. “And music.”
I nod. Now that I can relate to.
On Mrs. H.’s command, rock music pours into the apartment, and she starts to shake and sway, the beat taking over her muscles. She stirs the pot as she moves, the gruel sloshing over the sides.
“I remember every song I’ve ever heard, every note!” Mrs. H. shouts over the music. Then she frowns. “Well, almost every song. Of course, there are notable exceptions. Anything by